Imagination is more important than knowledge.
—Albert Einstein
HAVE YOU EVER SAT IN A CAFé, WATCHING PEOPLE talk or chat on the phone? Ever wonder what all of the talking is about? Could everyone have that much worth saying? When sociologist Robin Dunbar eavesdropped on these conversations, he found that the vast majority of what is said is nonessential.1 In other words, almost all our conversations have no purpose other than to keep us connected. With the evolution of culture and language, the ways we nurture one another have expanded beyond grooming, touch, and sharing food to words and stories. Although most of the content of our verbal communication is nonessential, words are a social glue and a primary connection to the group.
As social creatures, humans are constantly sharing information with one another. Given a bit more time, we share stories—our encounters with the traffic cop, a trip to the barber shop, or something we saw an adorable 3-year-old do earlier in the day. Given still more time, we may tell longer and more elaborate stories, some of which end up being told again and again. Some of these stories stick in our minds and compel us to spread them to others.
Of these stories, a few become part of group memory. These stories often embody personal struggles and moral principles that transcend time and say something important about what it means to be human. The Iliad and Bhagavad Gita come to mind as examples of stories that turn into legends and cultural cornerstones. From ancient religious texts to tweets, social information exchange never sleeps.
In order to more fully appreciate the role of storytelling in human culture, it is important to realize that the abundance of media in today’s world is a recent phenomenon. Written language available to everyday people is only a few hundred years old. Throughout history, the knowledge and wisdom of a tribe were transmitted via face-to-face storytelling. For most of human evolution and in many places in the world today, oral tradition serves as the primary means of transmitting culture among individuals and across generations. Now that there are few places free of cell phone and Internet service, this will soon come to an end.
I’m in my 60s and live on the West Coast, while my mom is in her 80s and lives back East. On most weekends one of us calls the other to check in and say hi, and we spend anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour listening to each other’s voices. We talk about the weather, share our various maladies, and catch up on family gossip. This week she told me about a rockslide in her town that took out a delicatessen that made good tuna sandwiches. “Too much rain—too fast—inadequate drainage,” said she. I told her about my sinus problems that the doctors can’t seem to diagnose. “Antibiotics don’t work—no end to phlegm—inadequate drainage,” said I. This apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.
At some point in the conversation, something will trigger a memory in her. “Have I ever told you about . . . ” she begins, and launches into a story from the past. These stories can go on for a long time. I enjoy hearing most of them, even those I’ve heard before. Many of them are tales of her childhood and the travels of our many relatives. Sometimes I imagine what it must have been like to sit with one’s family around the hearth in the distant past, listening to tales of tribal history.
To understand the brains of older adults who excel in telling tales from long ago, we may benefit from taking an evolutionary perspective on their abilities to better recall and recount old information rather than more recent stories. One of the many negative stereotypes of older people is that they talk too much, stray from topic to topic, and get sidetracked by irrelevant details. There is even a technical-sounding term, off-topic verbosity, to describe this style of communication.2 It is generally attributed to the breakdown of cognitive filtering that keeps the elderly from inhibiting irrelevant thoughts and feelings in their communication.3
While there may be some truth to these pathology-based theories, language functioning remains generally intact for the vast majority of us well into late adulthood.4 Older adults do become less concerned with being concise as they focus on transmitting their life experiences to those around them.5 They pay more attention to whether their audience is paying attention and will do and say things to capture a straying listener. Elders report the most satisfaction in communicating these stories when they experience the enjoyment of their listeners.6 For older adults, storytelling is not designed to be precise or support the accomplishment of external goals, but rather is a means of transmitting history, the expansion of culture, and the pleasure of connection.
THE RACONTEUR
How pleasant is the day when we give up striving to be young—or slender.
William James
One of the best things about being a therapist is hearing lots of stories. The best are usually told by older folks who, through countless repetitions, have worked on their style and timing, and seem to enjoy telling their stories a little more each time. They set the scene, develop characters, and come in for a perfect landing on the punch line or the moral of the story. One such storyteller was Sidney, whose therapy consisted of holding court with an audience of one. Every now and then he would let me get a word in, but if I offered an alternate way of looking at something, he would dismiss me with a wave of the hand and say, “You’re a kid. What do you know?” Sid would always follow this with a wink and a smile to let me know he had heard what I had said and that it was appreciated. He was a dear man.
About a year after his wife’s death, Sid’s son had noticed that Sid seemed distracted, disoriented, and forgetful. He feared that Sid, now 73, was suffering from the beginnings of dementia and took him to see a neurologist. These tests pointed away from dementia and toward depression, resulting in a referral for therapy, which is how Sid and I met. During our first meeting he laid down the law: “No tears, no drugs, and I’m not gonna tell you about my mother or what ink stains look like.” I liked him immediately. “How about telling me about you?” I said. He took it from there.
Sidney’s family had come from Eastern Europe to Chicago in the 1920s, where they started a factory machining parts for appliances and airplanes. His earliest memories were of his father bringing home small engine parts for him to play with. “He had a plan for me,” Sid said, raising his index finger for emphasis. His entire family was employed at the factory and there was little separation between work and home—everything revolved around “the business.” Surviving the Depression, World War II, and losing most of their family in the Holocaust only made them more diligent, thankful, and aware of the fragility of life. Needless to say, Sid never spent much time playing games or relaxing. Other than a few years away from work, which he spent as a paratrooper in France and Italy, most of his life was spent at the factory.
“I worked hard my whole life, running a business, fighting Nazis and labor unions, trying to be tough, and I was pretty tough, let me tell you. I was always on the go, always keyed up, always worried about something. Would I make payroll? Could I pay the mortgage and the kids’ tuition? Was I dressed right? Did I look good?” His eyes smiled as he said, “You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I didn’t do too bad with the ladies in my day. Someday if you’re good, I’ll tell you about the French girls.” Another wink.
I imagine that Sid’s grief over the loss of his wife had led him to withdraw from his usual activities and social connections. This evolved into a set of habits lasting long enough to alter his biology into the downward spiral of depression. Fortunately, Sid’s son intervened before his depression became too deeply entrenched. I could sense that my presence, attention, and interest were part of a natural healing process that was as good as or better than the antidepressants he warned me not to suggest. It seemed that my attention had created enough leverage to help him to heal himself. As a therapist, it is good to remember that you can often help more by doing less.
By teaching me about himself and his life, Sid was reminded of how much he enjoyed interacting with other people. As our relationship deepened, I believe that he was reframing his life in the context of our attachment and a lifetime of positive memories. My curiosity helped Sid to reflect on his life and remember how interesting it was and could continue to be. I wanted to somehow encourage him to get reconnected with old friends, make new ones, visit family, take trips, and join some group activities in his community. I didn’t want to prescribe these things, so I simply asked about them.
As Sid talked about his life before his wife’s death, he would say things like, “I should call Sammy to see how he is,” or “I bet my son would enjoy doing that again.” These thoughts gradually turned into action as Sid became more energized. As he reconnected to his social network, his depressive symptoms and cognitive problems resolved. Fortunately, attachment stimulates the chemistry of positive mood and neural plasticity.
During one of our last sessions, I asked Sid what he liked best about aging. He thought long and hard before saying, “I just don’t give a damn.” Then he thought again for awhile before saying, “Don’t get me wrong—I still care about people and I want the world to be a better place. What I don’t give a damn about is all the stuff that I used to be afraid of, the stuff that kept me up at night. Not just work and money, but all the things that used to seem so important, like whether people liked me or whether I dressed right. I used to worry if I was cool! Can you imagine, cool? I realize now that these things mean less than nothing, and what a relief! It’s a shame I wasted so much time and energy worrying about nothing. I learned in my old age that what is important is happening inside of me and within the people I love.” Well said, Sid. And yes, I eventually got to hear about the French girls.
This drive toward storytelling in older adults, spurred by changes in our brains, minds, and hearts, creates models for the stories that younger people come to tell about themselves. As we age, our experience of relationships, like our stories, goes through a continual metamorphosis. For example, at age 25, 92% of the focus of our stories concern our wishes for the future and are about us. By age 60, 71% of our concerns, wishes, and hopes shift to our families, friends, and humanity.7 The stories of the young are about shaping an identity, while those told by the old to the young are mostly meant to be a gift.
THE IMPORTANCE OF STORIES
Memory is the mother of wisdom.
Aeschylus
Contrary to our ideologies of rugged individualism, we live within a fabric of relationships that includes the stories we tell one another about ourselves and our experiences with others. The human brain coevolved with spoken language, larger, more complex social groups, and an increase in caretaking and interdependency. Within this evolutionary matrix, storytelling came to serve a variety of functions. A well-told story contains gestures, expressions, and ideas flavored with feelings, leading from conflicts to resolutions. The stories become a soundtrack that guides our behaviors and shapes our identities. Storytelling creates a sacred and timeless space in which the past and present merge in the service of the future.
Cultural memories embedded within stories and myths evolve over time. Each time a memory is accessed, it can be modified by new experiences so that it remains relevant to the present moment.8 In fact, any caring person can modify the identity of others by helping them to edit their stories, leveraging the malleability of memory positively with each new generation.
Humans are akin to neurons communicating across a social synapse, and when loving others link up with us, the result can be a vital integration where the total is much greater than the sum of its parts. We can use our interpersonal resonance, intuition, and empathic abilities to heal one another through the telling and retelling of stories. Stories also help us remember who we are. If our self-narratives are positive and optimistic, they support well-being and mental health. If they are negative and anticipate failure, they can be damaging to our health, success, and self-image.
As human brains evolved more complex and functionally diverse neural networks, integrating these systems grew increasingly challenging. An example of this challenge is coordinating our left and right hemispheres. Originally mirror images of each other, the two sides of our brain have grown increasingly dissimilar through primate evolution. The right hemisphere specialized in the representation and organization of the body, emotional regulation, visual processing, and imagination. It also came to organize autobiographical memory and a cohesive and consistent sense of self. These functions were best served by simultaneously processing images, actions, and emotions, forming an automatic and nonverbal form of experience and the self.
On the other side of the brain, the left hemisphere came to specialize in the organization, sequencing, and planning involved in navigating the world. As social relating became more and more complex, the left hemisphere came to organize social grooming, gestures, handshakes, and eventually the development of language. It has been proposed that while the two hemispheres once held equal sway over our behavior, the left hemisphere came to organize conscious behavior and inhibit input from the right during waking hours. Although the subordination of the right hemisphere has helped us to create science and civilization, it has put us at risk of an estrangement or a lack of awareness of our emotions, intuition, and inner experience.
So what role do narratives play in the coordination and integration of brain functioning? Although heard and processed sequentially, narratives also involve gestures, expressions, emotions, and visual imagination that require the joint participation of the left and right hemispheres, cortical and subcortical networks.9 While we usually assume that these integrative functions only occur within the brain. It is my contention that narratives support the integration of the two hemispheres and diverse neural networks. It’s a way in which some of the brain’s needs can be outsourced to the group mind.
I use the word narrative to describe the sequencing of events that drive the temporal structure of a story, its emotional background, and its underlying theme. What is the basic narrative structure of a novel, a children’s book, or a Hollywood movie? It contains a central character or hero who faces a series of obstacles. Some obstacles are external, like a competition or the presence of an enemy. Other obstacles are internal, such as an inner brokenness that causes prolonged pain and thwarts the hero’s ability to move forward to obtain the goal. The goal can be anything from love, to winning a game, to basic survival. In the process of the narrative, things get bad, and then get a little worse, before the challenges are ultimately faced and surpassed. As the story proceeds, heroes mature, endure suffering, and eventually find redemption.
Good stories are emotionally evocative, draw us in, and connect the audience through parallel emotions and experiences. A good story always contains conflict and trouble; of what interest is Red Riding Hood without the Big Bad Wolf, Luke Skywalker without Darth Vader, or Othello without Iago? We become part of the challenge, struggle with difficult feelings, and learn about ourselves along the way. Our attraction to these stories is not an accident; they not only provide for neural integration, but also teach us to problem solve, persevere in the face of conflict, and manage fear and uncertainty.
Our early lives are dominated by fairy tales and myths that usually contain literal and metaphoric meanings. Cinderella represents our feelings of being unappreciated; the wicked stepsisters embody the bullies in all of our lives, and Prince Charming fulfills our dreams of being loved and appreciated for who we are. The fact that many cultures have parallel stories speaks to the commonality of human experience. We process the words of the story while simultaneously experiencing the emotional ups and down with the protagonist. Because the left hemisphere is processing the semantic aspects of words while the right is processing its metaphoric meaning and emotional significance, hearing and telling stories results in simultaneous activation and integration of both hemispheres.10
I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN, I KNOW I CAN
Pessimism leads to weakness, optimism to power.
William James
A favorite story of one of my youngest clients was The Little Engine That Could. Joey had his parents read it as one of his bedtime rituals at every possible opportunity. Although they all knew it by heart, Joey insisted that they hold the book and turn the pages at the appropriate time. During one of our sessions, while struggling to piece together a puzzle more appropriate for older kids, I heard him quietly saying to himself, “I think I can. I think I can.” Joey had internalized this story in such a way that the entire narrative—beginning, middle, and end—could be summarized in this single brief phrase. He had learned to use it in moments of challenge to persevere through difficulties, regulate his frustration, and have confidence in a positive outcome.
Joey evoked the little train to create a state of mind that helped him face challenges. He made the story part of his internal experience that was available to him when needed. In just this way, stories become mechanisms of emotional regulation that serve to keep us calm and remain in control of our thoughts and feelings.11 The emotional regulation they provide supports not only left-right integration but a more regulated state of arousal that supports neuroplasticity and learning, as well as a positive and optimistic mood.
The importance of narratives for brain integration may be why we find correlations between mental health, emotional regulation, and the quality of an individual’s personal narratives.12 Individuals who are able to put their stressful experiences into words and tell their stories to others experience less distress, have enhanced immunological functioning, and spend less time at the doctor’s office.13 There is evidence that narratives aid in emotional security while minimizing the need for elaborate psychological defenses.14
Children with more sophisticated narratives that include self-reflective remarks are more likely to be securely attached.15 This is largely due to the fact that secure and emotionally mature parents and grandparents are aware of their own internal emotional states and share this information when talking with their children. They also ask their children what’s on their minds and how they feel, offering opportunities for shared emotional learning and the coconstruction of personal narratives. Older adults not only have the time to offer this form of nurturance to children, their brains are actually primed for it.
Who do you know who likes to hear the same stories, again and again, in precisely the same way? Probably the young children in your life. And do you know anyone who likes to tell stories again and again as if they never told you before? Most likely your parents, grandparents, and other older folks in your life. The juxtaposition of these two instinctual drives is unlikely to be a coincidence. I am pretty confident that this reflects a genetically driven lock-and-key mechanism for the transmission of knowledge and wisdom across the generations from a time before written language. Storytelling, a time-honored tradition across all cultures, is something that modern technological societies should not surrender without a fight. Rather, we should find ways to foster and reinforce this ancient tradition to support biological, psychological, and spiritual health.
The widening divide between right and left hemisphere processing has increased the challenge of integrating rational thought with unconscious feelings and intuition. Stories, myths, and fables can help us cope with anxieties that cannot be dealt with by logic alone. Think of the example of hunting as a potential incubator for early myth. The rational strategies of hunting would help our ancestors successfully track and capture prey while myths and rituals would help them deal with the complex emotions involved in competition, separation from their families, and the killing of animals.
The value of stories, myths, and rituals cannot be assessed on the factual accuracy but on whether they feel true and help us to live with more courage. While logic demands consistency, accuracy, and linearity, myth uses stories as vehicles of connection to create meaning and nurture the listener. Although myths arise from the past, they represent timeless themes that continue to be a part of human experience. The myth of the hero and its eternal theme of the courage to persevere in the face of challenge is core to the survival of each individual and the tribe as a whole.
WISDOM: ATTAINED AND SUSTAINED
The growing ranks of elderly . . . will be like having a vastly expanded senate in our civilization.
Arnold Scheibel
Just as we can now use journals, photographs, film, and other media to enhance the storage capacity of our memories, storytelling and its underlying neural structures were expanded to hold entire lives and cultures. I would be willing to wager that, over evolutionary time, narratives became a strategy for embedding information within the group mind, allowing the individual brain to grow further in size and increase in complexity.
One of my favorite examples of this came from a small coastal village rebuilding in the wake of the Indian Ocean tsunami in 2004. Although the buildings were all destroyed, rescue workers were stunned to find that all of the villagers had survived. They discovered that after the earthquake, the village matriarch told a story from her childhood about the importance of going to the mountaintop after the ground shakes. Following her advice, the tribe went to the top of the island’s central mountain, watched as the tsunami washed away their village, and safely returned after the ocean receded.
As my parents grow older like their parents before them, it is impossible to escape the fact that they are storytellers. I listen, smile through each recitation, and play my designated role in the unfolding of the familiar drama. As an adolescent, I remember growing impatient hearing these stories again and again. Now the experience is a mixture of pleasure and the bittersweet awareness that I may not hear them for much longer. These stories are no longer about learning something new, but about the revitalization of memories and the enduring embrace of our common history.
Although no one was completely sure how old she was, my grandmother lived well into her 90s. Ever since I was a small child, she always had a jar of hand cream nearby, and was in an almost constant state of moisturizing. As she spoke, she would draw me closer, eventually moisturizing my hands in hers. When I visited during her last years, I would pull my chair up close to hers. She would take my hands into hers, start moisturizing, look into my eyes, and begin, “Remember the time . . . ” launching into the stories of our shared past. Each visit had the same stories, smiles, smells, and touches. I think of this as a ritual space where our hearts, minds, and bodies would synchronize as we became absorbed in shared memories.
We have seen that the changes that occur in the brain during the life span seem to increase bilateral processing and alter the focus of attention toward personal narrative. When wise elders tell stories, it is not only for entertainment but to provide life lessons and guidance for thought and action. Perhaps being closer to the end of life than to its beginning, older adults spin these stories in a way that urges the listener to seize the day, take risks, and appreciate life’s fragile beauty.
As we progress through adolescence and into adulthood, the pressures of raising a family, establishing a career, and dealing with day-to-day realities lead us to deal with life in increasingly rational ways. As these pressures are alleviated and we gain greater perspective, we look back to recapture some of the mythic components of our past we left behind. Our children offer us the opportunity to reconnect with mythical and magical thinking and the value these tales can have for us overly rational adults.